


sink

by vohtaro



Series: founders era [1]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:55:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26889229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vohtaro/pseuds/vohtaro
Summary: Madara will hold himself up for as long as he can before finally sinking.
Relationships: Senju Hashirama/Uchiha Madara
Series: founders era [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1961821
Comments: 7
Kudos: 55





	sink

Madara remembers the first time he walked on water. Channeling chakra into his feet and stepping unto the unsteady surface of a river. What was once a divider between lands could be crossed with ease. His mind had raced at all of the possibilities ahead of him. Clan members behind him marveled at how quick he was picking up the basics. He looked behind him and found Izuna, wide eyed and awestruck, impressed, and proud. 

Madara remembers Hashirama darting across the river’s surface when they noticed a dead shinobi drifting motionless, the first day they’d met. He regarded the other kid with wariness, yet couldn’t help watching him, similarly masterful in the techniques that no other could have previously matched him. They sparred together for hours. It was easy enough to hide the bruises and scrapes when their childhoods had been stolen by the threat of dying on a battlefield.

They had reclaimed it. Their childhood. A few months of youth taken from the gaping maw of war, snatching it from bloodied teeth. They held it together, victorious. 

Those months… they were perhaps some of the happiest he’d lived.

Dawning realization sweeps through Madara. So, this is what it must feel like to accept death. 

In the following instant, pinpricks scatter over the length of his body. It stings like fire, it chills from the marrow in his bones, fear whirling a dulling mind into action. No, this can’t be it, there’s so much he wants to do, things he’s meant to see--

\-- there are footsteps on the water’s surface, the sound slightly muffled when accompanied by the falling rain around them. Madara eases, casts his gaze down to where Hashirama stands above him. 

If only he didn’t look so pathetic.

_No… that’s not it._

Hashirama stays back several feet, eyes bearing countless emotions, none of them the least bit pleased with where this has ended. Surely he didn’t hope to lose. Their history suggested this outcome was likely, yet Madara persisted nevertheless. Driven by an unseen force, an obligation to see his vision through. It’s only ever shaken when he meets his familiar brown eyes. They’re flanked by hair soaked through from the rain, from blood and sweat, the droplets in the air from the falls nearby. It sticks messily to his face, no doubt tangled at the back. His armor is broken in places, clothes beneath it torn and singed. 

He still has more chakra than him. Bitterness stings on the tip of Madara’s tongue and he grits his teeth. Hashirama always had more. More chakra, more strength, more love, and Madara had chased that, chased him down like a starved demon eager to take it for his own. He thought eventually he could overcome this divide, let the Senju play with his precious village 

_his village, not their village, because it was never theirs, not truly, from the moment Izuna died and Madara read the inscriptions, he knew it couldn’t ever be theirs_

while Madara plotted and fought and tried to gain the upper hand. And here he lies on the surface of the river, the water’s flow trying with its might to carry him away for good. But it can’t end like this.

Two steps and he’s at Madara’s side. He kneels, scanning Madara’s body with his eyes, with -- _forgiveness_ . Madara swears he tastes bile, because if this is going to happen, Madara won’t be able to stand him looking so fucking _sad_ about it. Force is the only way, isn’t it? 

The Senju licks his lips. “Madara.” 

Madara’s hands twitch. Hashirama is expecting a hand seal and prepares in kind, his hands clasping together while Madara’s own shoot forward and attack directly. He surges with what strength he has left, a clumsy fist finding Hashirama’s jaw and half-sliding off from their slick skin, dulling the impact. A broad hand grabs his wrist, but Madara is still fast, his second hand slipping past his grasping fingers and swinging violently. He claws at him with any purchase he can manage while Hashirama yanks his head away to avoid the blow. The two men are fumbling pathetically now. Hashirama curses. Madara spits in his face. They’re bared teeth and open hearts, fighting for the same thing. 

There’s a point where Hashirama swings his leg over Madara’s hips, finally grabbing for his sleeves instead of his slippery skin, awkwardly kneeling over him. Madara isn’t above dirty tactics at the moment and swings his own leg upwards between Hashirama’s thighs. Hashirama’s armor clacks and catches against Madara’s thigh, somewhat diminishing the impact headed for his groin, but it still connects after a slight delay, and there’s a rush of satisfaction when one of Hashirama’s forearms brace down against the water by Madara’s head. If anything, it spurs the Senju into his own aggressive response, quickly taking hold of his sleeves and slamming Madara’s arms wide apart against the water’s surface with intense strength that makes Madara snarl with a pained sound.

As fast as it had begun, it’s done. They’re exhausted and breathless, and yet another one of Madara’s plans have failed. Not enough anger; if there was one thing Hashirama lacked, it was hate. 

Hashirama speaks through gritted teeth. “You came back.” 

Madara’s eyes widen, sucking in air to hiss at him. “ _Don’t_ make it sound like a homecoming.” 

He twists beneath him, but it lacks, and they both feel it. His hands grasp at the air, fighting the weight of Hashirama’s hold. He could use his mokuton, but he doesn’t, he refuses, and oh, Madara _knows_ why, and he wishes that knowledge could give him the strength to break free of this. 

“Why do you do this?!” Hashirama demands. A shiver runs the length of Madara’s spine. 

“Darkness is inevitable,” he retorts, seething at the brim, conviction taking the wheel briefly. “You think your village is the solution, you think you’ve cracked it, but I see it.” There’s a pause now, a pause where Madara had fully expected Hashirama to parry him, but instead he’s silent. Madara figures he may as well oblige. His voice is ragged but he doesn’t care; he welcomes the ache. “I see it for what it really is… and it won’t bring peace.” 

“The land is the most peaceful it’s ever been,” Hashirama says. Madara would think that after their battle, he’d be similarly hoarse. His voice is still somehow serene. “Other villages have formed, Madara… it’s a new era.” 

He cuts in, “Nothing lasts forever.”

“Because you don’t _let_ it--” 

“Because I am not a _fool_ , Hashirama--” 

“I don’t understand!” His hands grip desperately at Madara’s wrists now, fingers rough with battle and age digging into the Uchiha’s pale skin. “You speak as if there’s a conspiracy against you, as if the world is against you, all I ever wanted for you was to find your place in the village!” 

“There’s no place for me there!” He shouts, his torso pulling up against Hashirama’s hands, his face barely inches away from Hashirama’s, “There never was! My clan abandoned me before the treaty was signed, your despicable brother glares upon the Uchiha like filth,” and Madara ignores the protests above him, “and you think cooperation will lead you to your salvation... you think it’s so simple. To pretend you are all equal when it is in human nature to seek security by wielding the most power. It is Konoha against everyone else, whether you like it or not. The village’s founding and your promise of peace painted a target on the backs of all shinobi who reside there.”

Hashirama stares down at him, at a loss for what to say. Madara breathes deeply, his anger subsiding again below the murky depths of his soul. Madara has spoken his peace, and it’s now up to the man above him to act on it. Hashirama doesn’t intend to bring him back. He certainly won’t try using his old tactics of persuasion via hopeful speeches. There’s only one solution. 

But the man is stalling. Madara has grown to be more patient over the years, but now he’s more restless than he’s ever been. This must be a test of his resolve. If there’s some divine fate relying on him to suddenly change his mind, it won’t be satisfied. He tilts his chin down slightly, waits for Hashirama to predictably allow a perplexed expression to ghost across his features -- his heartstrings are an instrument Madara is well practiced in -- and he twists his wrists to free them from his grasp. He just wants Hashirama to _do it_ , to strike him and end it; maybe if he doesn’t think in his reaction, it’ll rid them both of the agony of this drawn out close. 

Another brawl ensues, this one uglier than the last. Water splashes under Madara’s shoulders, their feet slide on the rippling surface. Madara shoves him back, but Hashirama adapts and sits back on Madara’s hips. It earns him a wild growl, the feral man below him rising in hot renewed anger and reaching out to drag him back down again. He grabs for his armor, feels it crack under the pressure of his grip and he throws the shards away thoughtlessly. Blocking a grab from Hashirama’s hand, he takes a handful of wet hair and _pulls_ , lips spreading in a wild grin when the Senju yelps. Fingers tangle, twisting his long locks and pulling, pushing, a tirading ocean of confliction. He hates this, hates him, hates this world and this life and he hates that he loves him-- 

Hashirama is taking it with minimal resistance now, grimacing and hissing when the pain is too intense, but not pulling back or putting a stop to it. His hands have wrapped around Madara’s forearms, and they’re locked in each other’s grips. He’s so patient, so fucking patient, and Madara feels his threadbare reality unraveling even further. A guttural roar tears from his throat and he digs his nails into the Senju’s scalp -- pain stings at his own hairline, and -- wait, he’s gripping his own hair, those are _his_ hands--

“Madara--!” 

Palms press into his eyes until he sees white spots behind his lids. He throws his hands down against the water beneath him, striking it like a child in a tantrum. His chakra is dwindling, he can’t keep this fight up much longer. Maybe he could drown -- he could release the flow and simply fall beneath the surface, drown, drown out the noise and the sound, his own existence. Hashirama would be at peace, wouldn’t he? The world would fall to turmoil, but why should he care? They didn’t listen to him. Even Hashirama didn’t listen; Madara knew he wouldn’t anyways. It was all about that foolish dream. As if it would fill the void of all he’s lost. 

Madara opens his eyes. Hashirama’s face is bloody, he notices idly. So he did scratch him. One line from the outer corner of his eye to the center of his cheek. Good. His eyes are wide, not unlike a child’s. His hair sticks to his face in messy swirls and twists, matted with blood and dirt, their blood, the dirt of their land. 

Hashirama regains his resolve in the moments that follow. Slowly, he leans over Madara again. He’s shielding him from the rain, his body a solid canopy taking the burden and granting him shelter. Madara relaxes beneath him, finally giving up on antagonizing him any longer. Can the river carry his griefs downstream like it did Hashirama’s all those years ago? If nothing else, it’s washing him clean before his inevitable end. He wants to be cremated. Just like Izuna was. 

“It’s over.” He exhales, and decades of battles and countless bloody matches have come to this moment. To say it aloud makes it real, and he thinks he’s ready. “It’s over.” 

Hashirama shakes his head. He can’t accept it. He always had a way of denying what was inevitable no matter how obvious it was. It was infuriating. Perhaps Madara would miss it. “This is what it’s meant to be.” He stares up into the eyes of his friend, his foe, stares into the abyss of sympathy and understanding more suffocating than the burden of his self-inflicted destiny. “You… need to do this.” 

He shakes his head. A wet lock taps against Madara’s cheek. “I won’t.” 

“You will.” He licks his lips. “You will because I tell you to. Don’t make me do it to myself. It’d be insulting.” 

Hashirama’s eyes close tightly. He grimaces, lines on his face that don’t belong form beneath his eyes. Lines that have been engraved into Madara’s face since he was a teenager. Grief, anguish, denial. They don’t suit him. 

“If you don’t, I’ll only come back. I’ll do this until you kill me--” 

“Stop.”

He doesn’t. “-- more will die. And the longer you wait, the number will rise.” 

“I said _enough._ ” He’s crying. 

Madara doesn’t speak. Hashirama cries in defiance of shinobi rules, in defiance of himself. Their lives are unfair and have been since the beginning. Things had been changed for the better, but Madara sees that needless death is inevitable. War is inevitable. As long as humans divide themselves, it’ll never stop. The groups are simply getting larger and more powerful. Hashirama’s fantasy will not last forever. 

Slowly, Hashirama’s head tips down, his forehead pressing against Madara’s sternum. His shoulders shake. Madara watches through barely-opened eyes how his armor jostles slightly, his shoulders bearing an insurmountable weight. Madara nearly regrets adding to it. 

“It will make things easier.” He says it aloud for both of their benefits. 

“You’re wrong,” comes the muffled reply. 

Madara sighs, closing his eyes. “You can’t be this selfish.” 

Running water fills the void, heavy rain droplets pattering around them, a low rumbling of thunder in the distance. If Madara didn’t know Hashirama, he’d think he had an influence on the skies above them. His chakra is still strong, unlike Madara’s withering flame. It’s warm. Or maybe that’s just his weight against his chest. Hashirama is his tether, grounding him. The last thing keeping him clinging to this reality. His own plans, his own hopes… dashed and useless. Now, he is tired. 

The weight above him shifts. Hashirama braces his palms against the river’s surface and pushes himself up. Warmth fades. Madara knows he deserves this.

“I want to be selfish,” he says, his voice rough with emotion. His eyes are red, puffy, unseemly. Madara thinks back to the river long ago. Hashirama doesn’t cry very often. 

“Neither of us can have what we want,” he muses. 

“Because you refuse me.” 

Madara can’t help a knowing smile, and in his own way, it’s also apologetic. “I see the truth.” 

“You’ve seen one thing and convinced yourself it’s the truth.” 

“Now, don’t get poetic on me.” Chapped lips pull into a grin. It would be threatening were he not in his position right now. “It’s not like you.” 

Hashirama looks down at him. Is he trying to commit this to memory? It’s hardly a moment worth remembering. He’s frayed and tattered, he’s bloody by his own two hands. Soaked through, disheveled. He thinks it odd how vanity is on his mind when his death is incoming. Does he have last words? Not like they’ll be written down or remembered… perhaps by Hashirama, only him… the only one who risked himself to save him time and time again. Who nearly gave his own life for him. 

Perhaps this is why he’s waiting. Losing Madara is equivalent to losing himself. So readily was he willing to sacrifice himself for his brother, for the village. For Madara.

“I always imagined,” Hashirama speaks softly, recalling a fond memory, “that it would be us… side by side. That you would always be there.” 

Madara looks into his eyes. He’s said this before. 

“I…” and he hesitates again, tears welling up. Madara feels his own lips twitch, quivering briefly. His hands weave upwards between Hashirama’s arms that cage him in, settling on either side of his face. His palms are clammy and cold, river water slipping between the cracks and crevices of their skin. 

A pause. Several breaths. “It’s over.” 

He has a blade better suited for the task than a standard kunai. It must be by his hand or it won’t mean anything. There’s no pride dictating this, but closure. Catharsis. Madara gives him the benefit of lying still. Hashirama could convince himself it wasn’t fully intentional, otherwise. 

Their eyes lock before he begins. There’s nothing to savor in this, no romantic longing gaze to soften the blow. Madara doesn’t want that, and it seems Hashirama doesn’t either. 

The blade plunges down, searing hot pain emanating as his body panics. Madara forces his eyes open to make sure Hashirama doesn’t back out and heal him in a last-ditch effort to save him. There’s several moments where Hashirama refuses to look at what he’s truly done. Eventually he does, right as hot blood rises into Madara’s mouth. Slowly bleeding out is painful, he decides, and not how he would have liked to go in retrospect. But very few things have gone his way in his life. Perhaps it’s fitting. 

Hashirama looks up. He’s crying again, damn him. Madara turns his face to the side and blood surges past his lips and down his cheek, sickly hot as it trails by his ear and down his jaw. It’s slow, too slow; he’s practically suffocating. Hadn’t he just been thinking of drowning…? 

There’s a rough hand on the back of his neck, and Madara turns his gaze to the source. Hashirama’s eyes are still tearful, but they’ve softened. The edges are blurring. Everything’s blurring. Madara blinks, but no, it’s not his eyes this time… He’s heavy. His torso dips down into the river. A hand grips desperately his mantle. He won’t let go, will he?

If something else happens, it’s beyond his discernment. Madara sinks, but even the river’s current can’t wash everything away.

**Author's Note:**

> written on a variety of late nights as i thought about a different way madara's life could have ended at the valley of the end. 
> 
> i honestly haven't thought about these two in close to ten years, but i appreciate their dynamic in an entirely new way now. glad to be back in it.


End file.
